


Powerless

by laEsmeralda



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even before Logan arrives from the future to find Charles and Erik (<i>Days of Future Past</i>), transformations begin at the mansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Powerless

**Author's Note:**

> I take pains with all my stories to maintain safe sex. I thought long and hard about this one, which takes place in late 1972, and settled on historical accuracy.

Hank wrestles Charles onto a settee in the room that smells too much of persistent frustration. Today, it isn't lack of serum, but excess of cognac, that causes Charles to wobble. As he eases Charles to the cushions, the strong hands do not let go, and Hank is caught on one foot, knee braced. He's not overbalanced, Charles is so light. But he is not pleased. "I've warned you not to mix alcohol with the serum."

"I didn't," Charles protests disingenuously. "Not directly."

Hank snorts. He pulls back, only succeeding in dragging Charles halfway off the settee. He settles him back. "You're drunk. Again." 

Charles sighs. "Yes. And your eyes are severely blue. Still." he remarks. "Very well, leave me to sober up. I shall try to be better." He releases his grip and lies slack, turning his face toward the wall.

Standing, Hank surveys the wreck of his friend. "Why do you do this to yourself?" It seems a futile question to which there are so many answers.

Charles does not look at him. Hank waits through the silence of the next minute. Finally, Charles says, "Either the serum in my blood, or the lack of other people in my head, puts me in desperate _want_. The alcohol dulls it. Given my various… constraints, I find that helpful."

Hank doesn't know what to say. He thinks back. "You can walk. Even when you can't, there's nothing to stop you—"

"Best to leave it." Charles' voice is gentle, sad, not angry.

Hank leans down and squeezes his shoulder before leaving the room.  
*******

He studies the test tube. He doesn't think it is a side effect of the serum. At least, not for him. He has a strong drive, same as always, follows it where it needs to go.

He recalls only rare visitors for Charles, chides himself for never asking him about it. That said, he can't imagine the man referring to sex at all if he hadn't been drunk. He has never spoken about Erik as a lover or beloved, but Hank knows better. Whether or not they ever touched that way, the broken heart and abandonment that Charles experienced say enough. 

Hank's eyes well. So much suffering. The best remedy for too much empathy is to let the beast out for a long run in the woods. 

Feeling so much better afterward, he pulls himself together into human form before walking out of the trees and in through the kitchen door. He makes tea the British way that Charles taught him, and uses a strong, Irish breakfast blend perfect for realigning after too much alcohol. His senses haven't humanized, so he can plainly hear Charles walking down the hall, barefoot though he is. Hank quickly puts the tray away and pretends not to have been about to play room service. 

"Apologies, for earlier," Charles says, sounding rough around his edges. 

Hank shakes his head. "No need, my friend. I worry is all. Far as I know, your liver's only human." He pours tea into the cream the way Charles likes it.

"I am aware that I have simply presumed your good care for several years now. I don't mean to."

Handing over a cup, Hank says, "I offered, you refused, and refused again. I simply ignored you and kept ignoring you. I wouldn't call that _presuming_ on your part."

"Well," Charles replies with a rueful smile, "at some point, I stopped protesting."

That makes Hank laugh. Because his senses are still heightened, he catches a scent that he's detected on previous occasions. Without certain other information, he never put the pieces together before. He decides to dive in. "Is it generalized—the desire—or specific?"

Charles appears to pale a bit, mid-sip. For a moment, he struggles, probably considering denying, deflecting. "I gather you've been out running in the woods," he observes. Hank just waits. "Very well, why would that be important, exactly?" Charles asks.

Aware that his own very pale skin is reddening, he asks another question. "Why would the _severity_ of my eye color be relevant?"

"Ah." Charles sips tea and gazes out the window. "A pertinent question. I'm not certain I have the answer to that one." His gaze slides back. "I could answer the first one, if you're truly asking and not making a rhetorical point."

"Oh, I'm asking," Hank replies, "shocking and inconvenient though that might be."

Charles nods, brusquely. "If I ever imagined this conversation, I believe I was showered and properly dressed for it."

The humor isn't lost on Hank. "Little late for that," he says. "But you're plenty attractive to shine through a little wear and tear if that's what you're worried about."

It's interesting to see the surprise bloom. Charles' hand suddenly trembles, and Hank reflexively rescues the cup. 

"Thank you. Even so, if you would excuse me for just a few minutes, I would prefer to have this conversation in a different state. Of being, not geography."

As Charles' footsteps fade up the stairs, Hank decides a shower and shave wouldn't be a bad idea.  
*******

They have reconvened in the study. To Hank, it feels strangely formal despite a certain measure of disorder in the surroundings. Charles stands by the window. Hank leans in the doorway. He's vaguely amused that _properly dressed_ involves a jacket and tie. And socks and shoes. His own clean polo and jeans seem somehow too boyish in comparison. 

His now humanized senses can't detect anything but soap and a lack of alcohol in the air. It makes the moment more difficult for him, actually, not being able to take the emotional temperature through scent. 

"Now, where were we?" Charles begins, turning to him. Silhouetted in the window, his expression becomes indistinct. Hank circles toward the bookshelves, bringing Charles' face back into focus. He doesn't speak. Charles continues, "Ah, yes. Your question." He slips his hands in his pockets. "Despite a general yearning, constant in the background, I would say, _specific_." 

Hank swallows around a sudden dryness of throat. "I never realized."

"I should hope not. Given that I assumed the attention would be unwelcome, I've taken pains to conceal it. And I don't mean the drink," he hastens to add. "That's because I can't fucking cope with myself in any respect."

"But you said—"

"It isn't your responsibility that I overindulge. I said what I did because I was drunk, you were… very near, and I was feeling repugnantly sorry for myself. I do drink to dull my needs, but desire is only one of those. There, I have answered."

"You never noticed my interest?"

"I noticed that you have guests of both sexes, but that always seems to involve intellectual discussions, role playing games with dice, loud music, and lab equipment. It's a big house and apparently, you are quite discreet. Whenever we go out, you seem to have a talent for chatting up the fairer sex."

"I don't eschew women," Hank says. "Or men."

Charles cocks his head, and for a moment, Hank is thankful that the serum is fully on board, because the conversation has brought up a number of images that would not be considered discreet, and Charles is otherwise powerless to block the thoughts of others. "I should have been more precise in my question," Hank adds. "You never noticed my interest in you."

"I did not."

"Good. Otherwise, it might have seemed a little creepy, my hanging around and helping out so… personally. For a long time, I idolized you too much to think of you that way." 

"Something changed."

Hank shrugs. "Not the admiration. Eventually, you were just so vulnerable that you got through. Not the Professor. Not the natural leader. Just you."

"That should embarrass me, deeply. It doesn't."

"The thing about sex, now that I have the serum, is that nobody has to see who I really am underneath. Finally lost my virginity a few years back. Then, I discovered that genders don't really matter to me. Lots of fun. But like I said, nobody sees who I really am. Can't let them." 

"Ever tried without the serum?"

"I know from… well, you know," he says, shrugging, "that I sometimes shift. Part of the way, sometimes all the way. It would be horrifying for the other person."

"Not to someone who knows you." 

"The blue monstrosity… pretty ugly."

Charles takes a step closer, his first movement in long minutes. "Careful, you're speaking to Raven's brother and champion."

"Oh, no!" Hank protests, surprised. "I didn't mean _her_."

"I know. But I believe that in this house, I have the exclusive on self-loathing."

Again, the droll wit that Hank has come to love. Charles' special way of softening blows. Which means a blow is coming. Hank's responsive smile fades.

Charles continues. "This has been an enlightening talk. I appreciate your candor. I also care about you too much to allow you to become involved with the likes of me. You have other options, and someday, someone less broken than I am will want to know the real you in all of your wonder."

"But you…"

Shaking his head, sadly, Charles says, "I have unfinished business with myself and a particular spectre I cannot seem to purge. At this point, I wouldn't even impose myself on a professional. It is heartening to have someone like you express interest." Charles turns back to the window. "You give me hope."

Hank knows their patterns enough to recognize the end of a conversation. He withdraws to his lab and spends the rest of the day there.  
*******

Hank is not sleeping. The clink of bottle and glass has begun again down the hall, and he has counted three. At Charles' tolerance, that's not drunk yet, but he will be, for the second time today. 

He has thought long and hard on their conversation and has worked himself into outrage. He can feel the beast at the edges of his awareness, as the afternoon shot begins to wear off for sleep. 

Charles continues to take serum through the night, using alcohol to counteract the stimulant effect, despite Hank's advice and his assurances that in an emergency, Beast will be there as his legs. 

Before he's aware of it, Hank is on his feet, heading to Charles' room. He doesn't mean to fling the door back against the wall, but he does, bouncing a brass doorknob dent into the plaster. And then catches the half-full glass from Charles' startled hand and polishes it off. It takes Hank a long moment to realize that he forgot clothing. "Shit. Sorry." He backs away, runs to his room, fumbles his jeans on, and returns. "Okay. Give me the damn bottle." He snatches it, walks it into the bathroom, and leaves it upside down in the sink, draining out. "Don't bitch at me," he admonishes, "I know it wasn't one of the expensive ones."

"To what do I owe this delightful visit?" Charles inquires in his professorial tone, which his disheveled hair, pajama bottoms, and bare-chested robe only partially undermine.

"Your pig-headedness. Insisting on knowing better than anyone else, even in realms where you haven't got a clue." Hank doesn't sit down. He realizes that he's looming over the half-reclining man, and that his own skin might have taken on a bluish hue that most people would find frightening. He's not so free of the serum to shift without a conscious effort, but he's upset, and his deeper nature is standing by for the slightest permission.

"My God," Charles breathes. Suddenly, he's tearing at Hank's fly, frantic, as he rolls to his knees on the bed. 

Startled, Hank can only watch, dumbfounded, as Charles extracts him and the jeans slide down his legs to pool around his ankles. He exclaims at the feel of a mouth, _that_ mouth, taking him in. He lets a groan slide out. It resonates with a low growl underneath. 

Charles answers with a more human sound, barely. Mouth busy, his hands liberally grope thighs and ass, until they still, one gripping his cock tightly while the other slides up to rest over his heart. Hank lets his own hands settle gently on Charles' head, stroking his hair. He doesn't know how long it has been for Charles, and he doesn't want to control anything, he wants to go with the flow. But after a minute, he's praying for stamina and barring that, fast recovery. "You're amazing," he rasps, bracing his feet a little wider, trying not to tangle in the discarded jeans.

He might have rather started with a kiss from those ridiculous lips, run his tongue along the uneven edges of Charles' strangely feral teeth. That said, the center of the universe seems to have balanced itself on the tip of his cock against Charles' soft palate. His fingertips press harder. "I'm close," he warns, but that only brings Charles on stronger. "This doesn't end with you blowing me," he grits out right before the first wave hits. 

As external awareness returns, he fervently hopes that he doesn't have claws. Charles might be ready for that, but he's not. To his relief, his human form seems to have held through the ecstasy. Reclining, folded arms behind his head, Charles looks as though he's the one who's been ravished, an illusion courtesy of wide-open pupils and wild hair. He smiles at Hank, and it's heartbreakingly insecure. 

Easing onto the bed, Hank straddles Charles' legs and braces his hands by his shoulders, keeping his weight to himself at first. He hovers, lips just above that sinful mouth until he senses readiness. He wants it to be eagerness, but he understands that Charles can't let himself feel that yet. Hank has cultivated a subtle approach to kissing that he finds takes both women and men to places they don't expect. 

Slowly, he touches with just his lips, a fleeting series of caresses as Charles' lips part beneath his, breath fast and light. A little moisture from the under-flesh of his bottom lip foreshadows a soft slip of tongue after. Charles moans and arches up, hands clutching his shoulders. He fights with Charles' hands to strip the robe away and lets his weight down, gently. Hard against Hank's belly, nails digging in, Charles has stopped holding back, and his luxuriant mouth is far less gentle in return. Hank allows himself to be rougher. With an unintended snarl, he shifts from mouth to neck, licking and nipping. Gasping and struggling underneath him, Charles can't seem to get close enough.

"Damnation," Charles hisses at his ear, going still. 

Hank freezes. "Why?" He can feel their hearts pounding counterpoint.

"I… I did myself out of what I most _need_ right now."

"Tell me, and I'll get it for you," Hank murmurs against the pulse in Charles' throat. 

The responsive laugh is rueful. "Alright. I need you inside me."

"I can get you that, if you can handle a little blue."

Charles doesn't hesitate. "I can."

Hank concentrates and hopes he can control the shift. His hands, feet, and musculature begin to thicken, he can see the skin of his hands and forearms darken and develop a hint of pelt, so his face must be changing. He doesn't detect even the slightest flinch in Charles, just sees a sense of wonder in his eyes. Hank's sense of smell sharpens, and suddenly, Charles is _delectable_ \--that scent again, aroused and musky and welcoming, the pheromones so much more quickly effective in this form. Immediately _ready_ , Hank sits back on his heels so he can strip away the pajama bottoms, careful not to shred them. While completing that task, he makes himself shift back. 

"You don't have to do that," Charles says, "I'll take you any and every which way."

"I want to feel my bare skin against you, touch you with my human hands." To illustrate, he runs said clawless hands down Charles' belly and grips his cock. "We can play with the blue stuff another time. I just needed to borrow some recovery."

"Effective," Charles observes. He gropes at the bedside table drawer until it slides open. 

Hank spots the lube and snatches it open. "This isn't really the best for this particular activity, but we'll make do." He pauses, mid drizzle, suddenly fearful. "Wait, it's been years, right?"

Charles glances back at the drawer. 

Hank follows his gaze and tips the lid off a wooden box inside. "Aha, Wow, okay." He liberally applies lube to himself, spreading it with his hands. 

"Take your time," Charles says, settling his shoulders into the sheets, keenly intent on Hank's manual activity. Charles' own cock is pulsing slowly against his belly, much more slowly than his heart is beating. Charles runs fingers along his length.

"No way," Hank replies with a tiny growl. He moves forward and teases, reading Charles, patiently working up to a full thrust. When he achieves it, they both gasp and then sigh, which causes a brief fit of laughter. Hank cuts it short with another, more confident thrust that results in an extended moan and Charles rolling his head back and forth on the pillow. It's obvious that he would take a fucking as hard as Hank can give, but Hank is overcome with tenderness. He rearranges his weight to free a hand, nudging Charles' hand out of the way so that Hank can stroke him. He rolls his hips, rather than thrusting, maintaining as much skin-to-skin contact as he can. 

"You are _very_ good at this," Charles whispers. 

"Better than self-service, anyway," Hank murmurs with a smile. 

"Better than I remember it at all."

Hank bites down on what he wants to say, that he imagines Erik couldn't have been a refined top. Another thought occurs. He leans close to an ear. "I bottom too, you know," he says, "I will with you." Charles shudders against him, and Hank doesn't add an editorial.

"Mm, I'd like that," Charles says in a low hum, squeezes him inside, and Hank is suddenly on the edge of the abyss. "You're much more direct about all this than… those of my generation."

"Things are getting better, slowly," Hank replies, realizing that Charles is helping him not spend too soon. "We still have to be cautious with outsiders. Sound familiar?" He shifts for a better angle and elicits a yowl that trails off into a less conflicted sound. "But not with each other." 

From there on, he holds himself back, slowly and patiently building, and then guiding Charles through what seems like a shattering climax. 

Through heaving breaths, Charles says, "You didn't," with surprise. His brows draw together.

"I'll wait until you recover and can return the favor."

Charles laughs. "You have high hopes for a busy night." 

"I do, and even the blue me can't go more than twice so close in time." Sliding free as gently as he can, Hank curls on his side next to Charles. "Listen, I haven't told you this, but my window for the serum is smaller and smaller, and it's taking more and more of it to achieve the same results. I don't think I have much time left in this form. Soon, I'll be powerless to stop it or reverse it."

Charles strokes Hank's arm. "It must be very painful for you to contemplate that."

"Once it happens, I won't have the option of hiding as normal ever again. In some ways, that's a very good thing. But it's damn inconvenient and unsafe." Hank suppresses the emotional pain for the moment. The hardest thing to admit is that he doesn't like to see blue, hairy, and fangy staring back in a mirror. He can't imagine anyone wanting to have sex with him ever again. The good looks on which others have remarked his whole life will evaporate. His own mother and father will need to relearn to recognize him.

"It will not matter to me." The simple statement is so heartfelt as to overcome any fear of its inauthenticity.

Hank's vision blurs for a moment. He blinks it clear. "Then, I'll really be needing your help, because it matters to me. It doesn't feel like my body. My consciousness is the same, but my senses aren't. I'm mostly furry, so I can't feel touch or temperature the same way. My voice is different." Hank touches his own lips with trembling hands. "I've worked hard to be a good lover, and I don't even think I'll be able to _kiss_ ," he adds, voice breaking.

"Hank," says Charles, pressing him to his back and locking eyes. "I won't try to tell you that it isn't going to be so bad. It'll be absolute fucking hell. You know what I've done to regain my legs, and I'm not at all at peace with myself. But you will _not_ be alone, I promise you. And beyond me, there will be others who understand, who come to love you, who want you in whatever physical form you manifest."

It's a lot to take in, hearing Charles include himself. Hank doesn't draw attention to it, just tries to absorb it and the protectiveness in those eyes. He's aware of trembling, and of his tenuous hold on the transformation right now. "Okay. Good. But for tonight, I want to be with you like this. The pinker me, less pointy teeth, you know?"

"Gorgeous, talented mouth," Charles pauses to kiss him thoroughly, and continues, "it still will be. "Severely blue eyes—that won't change. Nor the way you _fuck_." He shudders. "No one's ever touched me the way you did, outside or inside." 

Hank can feel Charles slowly, slowly hardening against his leg and reflexively presses back, which causes eyelids and lashes to flutter for a moment.

"And that didn't just begin tonight. You've cared for me through the worst of times, for years now. Always so gentle, even when you must have been—must be—frustrated. But that, _that_ was something special. You said you've worked hard to be a good lover, and I've now benefitted from that… practice, but I cannot help but feel that it wasn't mere experience." A tinge of bitterness sweeps through his features. "Erik had plenty of that."

There it is, the difficult admission, the answer to many questions. Hank reaches up and strokes his thumb along chin and jaw until he can gently rub an earlobe. "No, it isn't just practice. You have to have empathy, the intention to help the other person feel the best that they can. And you have to have more love in your heart than anger." He arches up to catch Charles' mouth for a long moment before relaxing back. 

"In this case, is it generalized—the love—or specific?" Charles asks, echoing their much earlier conversation.

Hank pulls him down to answer with careful precision.  
*******


End file.
